The Europeans have turned against America in the War On Terror. They believe that Americans don't understand a thing about the world. That Americans are ignorant, shallow and drunk with military might. In such a people's hands, all that weaponry and the willingness to use it poses a greater danger to the world, or more specifically to Europe, than even Osama bin Laden. America's handling of Iraq is a perfect example. ‘We Europeans have a profound understanding of the local people,’ they say. ‘You Americans don't even know where Iraq is located on a map.’

Thus think the Europeans.

Should America, and the rest of the world, listen? What is Europe's lesson to humanity? What example have they set for the rest of us?

To answer this question, we at the eXile have decided to let ze Europeans speak for themselves. A sort of ‘Europe on Europe’ primer. Nothing could better test the European sense of profound inter-ethnic understanding than studying how Europeans view their very own European neighbors.

And when you do that, you find something incredible: Bigotry and hatred are the bread and water of European life. This isn't a vague, impersonal hatred; rather, it's a profoundly evolved, carefully tailored hatred, a SMART Hatred if you will, tailored as tightly as a Swiss banker's shirt towards the village over the hill, where your bosom enemies live.

Through hard and thorough research (ie., by pouring beer into the throats of selected Europeans and letting them rant), the
eXile has managed to isolate and map the 18 fundamental hatred genomes that Europeans carry towards their neighbors - the RNA strand of Euro-hatred, if you like.

So put away your Lonely Planet guides, and pick up your Euro-Bigotry primer. It's because of European hatred that the biggest massacres in human history have taken place. And the wonderful thing is, in spite of all the post-war European talk of peace and understanding, all the bigotries still live on, waiting for the day when they can transform Europeans back from harmless disco-dancing buffoons into the murderous village brawlers they once were, and may someday be again.

So here it is, the eXile European Hatred Genome map. Our gift to you. Europe's gift to mankind.

Always respected as the deep, rich, thick heart of European ethnic strife, Central Europe has been in a rebuilding phase for the past half-century. A couple of four-year blood-binges took some of the fire out of the Heartlanders. These two world wars, which killed 70 million people, should be a lesson to us fans that there can indeed be too much of a good thing like ethnic hatred. Next time, Meine Herren, party hard but party safe!

* And as the genome-map below shows, you guys haven't forgotten how to hate - or how to party hard. Yes, the old instincts have survived intact. The many colorful tribes of Europe's deadly center are unshaken in their village hatreds. All they ask is that the world turn its stern, moralistic gaze away for a year or so. They'll do the rest!

When you check out Europe's shooting percentages over the last century, you can see that this is a very streaky performer who may have seen better days. Only a tantalizing little spike in the casualty rate for the 90s, provided by the ever-reliable Balkans, gives hope that Europe has some carnage left to give the world.

But before giving up on the old continent, let's remember that Europe also started the 20th century in a slump, mired in a long, boring period of balance-of-power peace which was making red-blooded Europeans cranky. They missed the chance to indulge in their ancestral sport: village to village axe fights every Saturday night.

Everybody was glad when the Balkan Wars got the teams off to a bloody beginning, but not even the most wild-eyed optimists dreamed of the gore-orgy that kicked off in 1914. By the time the last weary celebrant trudged home five years later, there'd been enough splatter to satisfy Freddy Kreuger.

And for the few who couldn't get enough, there was the Russian Civil War, a sort of after-hours club for trench junkies.

When peace of a sort broke out over Russia, there wasn't much in the way of alternative entertainment until the Spanish Civil War of the mid-30s. And even this wasn't so much a real war as a diary competition with casualties. It gave pencil-necked leftist geeks enough war stories to last several lifetimes, and provided the Luftwaffe and Red Army with excellent test conditions for their new weapons lines.

And what a wow they were, when the 1939 models hit the market. For the first time, Europeans could realize their ancient dream: not just chopping up a few of their neighbors, but annihilating every man, woman and child of them, once and for all. The new tools found willing hands, and by 1945, Europe had managed a stunning and impressive kill record which will probably remain unchallenged in our lifetime.

But that one great decade seemed to take a lot of punch out of the aging Europeans. The 50s were a near shut-out. Sure, Europeans were dying, in places like Vietnam, Malaysia and Algeria, but we're not counting them. We're measuring blood shed on the good old continent itself. And by that measure, the 50s were a drought, with nothing but the odd Greek commie or Hungarian anti-commie to pile on the bonfire.

The 60s were no better. Europeans still hated each other as warmly as ever, but no longer had the birth rate or team spirit to go out and kill for their convictions. Nothing but the odd bomb in Belfast, assassination in Bilbao, or tank-pedestrian match in Prague livened up a dull and hedonistic decade - a decade of shame for Europe.

The 70s and 80s offered little improvement. A few scores in supporating ethnic margins were all the newly-wealthy, selfish Europeans could manage. So-called ‘wars’ like the over-publicized scuffles in Northern Ireland, generated fewer casualties than a holiday weekend in Chicago. While the rest of the world bubbled over with gore, Europe just couldn't seem to get the old groove back.

And then, in the early 90s, when all hope seemed lost, the old troopers came through. The Balkans, stifled by decades of Tito-peace, broke out in a brilliant improv. They were short of personnel, fuel and equipment, but they made up for it with sheer blood-lust. It was a deeply touching reminder that the true European spirit can flourish even after years of pacifist repression.

So the old continent begins a new millennium, looking with pride at the small but encouraging statistical spike provided by a quarter million dead in a new and welcome round of Balkan wars.

Europe began the 20th century up to its axles in peace and then the Balkans show the way. Have the Balkans done it again a century later, and will Europe follow their shining path?

Only time will tell. But as new hate fills European hearts across the continent, the cry goes forth: ‘That village spoils the view!’

From the Vikings to Abba in a mere millenium-what a Waterloo it's been for these Dancing Queens! Looking back at Scandinavia's slip in the ratings could make you feel as rotten as a Swede on Christmas morning!

The sad fate of Scandinavia should be a lesson to us all in how dull and stagnant life gets when Europeans try to bottle up their genetic heritage of sheer, crazy, eternal ethnic hatred. It's not that the Skannies have lost their taste for inter-ethnic bigotry. Hell, no! Pour a beer down a Dane, say ‘Swede’ or ‘Norwegian’ and sit back for a spittle-punctuated rant that won't stop till the tap runs dry!

But a long course of rancid Lutheranism has made the Norse so shy of letting their wilder village hatreds run free. Only the recent entry of the three lost Baltic tribes has livened things up. And what a find the plucky Baltics were! Any European neighborhood would kill (and kill and kill) for new ethnic targets like the subhuman Latts or downright weird Lithuanians, the Unicorns of European ethnic groups.

Let's hope the new players loosen up the once-wild Baltic Conference. C'mon, Blondykes, let's see that old form back! Just hack, Baby! Just hack-n-slash…and let the Finns fall where they may! And now, to get you deepfreeze cases defrosted, is a map of the repressed hatreds you know you want to indulge!

A typically lazy, drunken Irish poet said it best: ‘Much hatred, little room.’ Land is scarce but bigotry is thick as congealed porridge in the “luvverly” British Isles - a little corner of the world that taught us all that fear, terror and genocide can be the building-blocks of a great Empire. The four tribes of this tiny archipelago have managed to colonize the whole world without departing even once from their assigned roles in an ancient abusive-family drama. England does her star turn as the quietly sadistic mum, with Scotland as the overachieving, half-mad ‘good son’ with an unhealthy crush on mum. Ireland can be counted on to steal a few scenes as the comic-relief whipping boy, and Wales is…let's see…Wales is, er, the slut of a daughter who wandered off to…where did she go, anyway?

Try as we might, we can hardly remember a stereotype to apply to the poor old Welsh - and in the British Isles, that's a sure sign of extinction. Without your neighbor's hatred to remind you who you are, you'd expand endlessly, dissipating into the vapors of these wretched tracts of fog.

* Note: the “shitty food” genome should be considered to apply to every square of this graph.

This was it: site of the Eastern Front, the unchallenged Superbowl of European ethno-violence, where the big boys had it out not once, but twice, to see whether the concentration camps of the future would be decorated in black or red. Yessir: from the long hot summer of 1914 to the Spring of 1945, the trains rolled across these endless plains, carrying the crosscurrents of a thousand village feuds with them. The big question mark here was what would happen when the Soviet oppressors repressed Easties' natural longing to kill their neighbors - or at least poison their dog while nobody was watching.

Welp, when the Evil Empire was rolled back, and its repressive peace overthrown, it turned out that the Easties' deep genetic hatreds had survived intact! One of the first dividends of the new era of freedom was the sight of ordinary folks from Bratislava to Gdansk expressing themselves, demanding the renewal of ancient, revered blood-feuds. Viewers thrilled to hear minor tax disputes enlivened by old village war-cries like, ‘These Slovaks are drinking our blood!’ or ‘Where a Ukrainian has passed, not even a Yid can find a crumb!’

Today ethnic hatred flourishes on the air, in the streets and along all the complicated borders of this colorful old madhouse we know as ‘the Big, Bad East.’

‘Have village, will burn.’ That's the ancient motto of the Balkans, where old habits die hard, and so do neighboring ethnic groups.

While the actual tally of dead in the innumerable Balkan wars pales in comparison to the rest of Europe, the per capita slaughter is unparalleled. The Serbs, for example, lost a quarter of their population in both world wars. The sheer savagery of the massacres, which tend to be ‘hand-made’ rather than ‘factory-made’ as in the rest of Europe, charm and delight with their primeval European authenticity.

Thanks to the Balkans, the rest of Europe feels itself to be pretty damned civilized, no matter how many tens of millions it's slaughtered.

The Balkan people, on the other hand, can take pride in the fact that they're the last Europeans to put their murder where their mouths are. While the rest of Europe's hatreds rarely result in anything more than drunken shouting matches, the Balkans still kill, rape and burn each other's villages every time a ‘lazy, stupid Bosnian’ or a ‘thieving Albanina monkey’ dares to accuse a Slav of being a ‘bloodthirsty Neanderthal.’ The only thing that has ever worked in the Balkans is stationing outside forces - once the Turks, today NATO. But that's like putting a band-aid on a severed artery.

With conflicts still smoldering in Macedonia, Albania and Southern Serbia, we're willing to bet that there'll be village bonfires a-burnin in the Balkans until extermination do them part.

It's easy to recoil in disgust at the sight of Eurofags (EF's) drifting like discarded restaurant coupons through the streets of once-great cities. But like the vulture and the liver fluke, the Eurofag has a place in Nature's great scheme. As a wise philosophe once said, ‘To understand is to forgive, within reason.’

The next time you see a EF wavering along, remember that his strange habits and markings are only an attempt to mimic the vanished European upper class. Above all it is the slow, bored gait of the EF which ape the motions of the lost aristocracy. Aristocrats could afford to dawdle; peasants spurred by starvation and the knout, moved at a shambling trot. Thus the EF moves like a sloth through molasses and does his best to hide all emotions except a faked ennui - unless the topic of beer and the merits of various national brands comes up, in whichcase the proletarian gene-base of the EF can become startlingly, even dangerously, clear. Observers are advised to leave the area if EF males begin discussing beer.

The faux ennui also vanishes when the EF reaches his preferred habitat, the cheesy disco, which according to some anthropologists summons racial memories: peasant ancestors gazing in awe at the bright, candle-filled ballrooms of their betters.

The odd wardrobe favored by EFs also evokes the vanished elite. Before plastic was invented, shiny objects such as gold sunglasses, polished shoes and silk shirts were the exclusive privilege of the wealthy. The peasant's garb came in only one shade: mud. Thus the EF feels an instinctive link between gleaming objects and high status and will often ‘hoard’ flotsam such as kruggerands, dacron and hair mousse.

The white cocaine-moustache often seen on EFs at their mating rituals is also an attempt to mimic the vanished Lordlings. The most irksome traits of the drug - its absurdly high price per dose and short duration - is a form of tribal display, or Potlatch. Often the EF will choose to forego food, shelter or Evian to maintain the precious moustache.

So although it's easy to dismiss the EF's gaudy displays, remember that they are only a sincere and perhaps rather sad attempt to evoke a grandeur the EF never really possessed and only dimly imagines. So rather than swerving into the next EF who drifts across your path, let the creature live out its time in a hostile, bewildering world.